


Synapse Flood

by NeverwinterThistle



Category: Transistor (Video Game)
Genre: Kink Meme, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 02:48:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2008143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverwinterThistle/pseuds/NeverwinterThistle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They do this well, if not much else. They manage a balance shaped in lingering silences and respectful incomprehension. There is no need to pretend they understand each other, though Asher at least tries. Maybe Royce does too. Maybe they're both missing the point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Synapse Flood

"Leave me _,_ " he says when the thousands and thousands of thoughts and concepts and ideas in his head won't be silent. "Leave me, I'm afraid I make for unpleasant company right now. Not feeling at all socially inclined, if that's the phrase. I'm quite sure it is. You, of course, would know better than I. With your words. Your...the way you weave them, not unlike spidersilk, an intricate process; you must be very proud. It's mastery, of a sort. Not one I've ever turned my hand to. But then, I suspect I would be ill suited to it, so the point is moot. Go away."

Asher shuts the door behind him firmly. He steps into Royce's studio. "Sybil mentioned you were in a mood." _As usual,_ he thinks, but it isn't fair of him. Royce so often seems to function on a different plane of consciousness to the rest of them; the things he builds, the ease with which he conjures wild, impossible schemes from the depths of his mind. Not surprising that he overloads sometimes. And not at all fair to judge him for it.

"Grant sent me," he lies, and regrets it immediately. As excuses go he should have been able to come up with something a little more convincing. That's what he does, after all. In a way.

"I doubt that," Royce tells him unnecessarily. "I'd be the first to admit I'm not the most...sensitive when it comes to deciphering implications and unspoken social cues, but I'm almost certain Grant doesn't want to talk to me right now. You see, he has something of mine. Borrowed it a short while back. Did you know?"

"I know."

"Yes, I imagine you would. What is he doing with it? Do you know that? Would you tell me if you did? Never mind _,_ " Royce turns away, shuffling through the papers on his desk with a distracted air. Asher catches glimpses of...things, fragments that make no sense to him. Pages and pages of scrawled equations in Royce's near-illegible hand; sudden flashes of colour splashed across incomprehensible sketches. He blinks and looks away. It's not like him to do so; he very badly wants to see, to _understand_. To steal a few of Royce's secrets.

Secrets are something of a hobby of his. But he respects this man enough not to go digging. Chances are he wouldn't like what he found. Grant's warned him about that.

"I don't know what he's doing with the Transistor" Asher says, as much to distract himself from Royce's fingers flicking delicately through the papers ( _his secrets, a glimpse at the inner workings of his mind_ ) as to answer the question. "Only that whatever it is, whoever he chooses, will bring about change. An end to change. He believes he can do something wonderful for this city, and I believe in _him_."

"So now we wait."

"You don't trust Grant?"

"Unfair question, Asher. Not fair at all. I let him borrow it, my magnum opus; let him take it away without restriction, or limitation. Without question... Do I trust Grant? Why don't _you_ tell _me_?"

"Is that resentment I hear?" Claws dig like little needles into his tensed shoulders; he shrugs carefully and the weight is gone, transferred to one of Royce's workspaces with a soft _thump_ and a skitter of paws among charcoal pencils. Asher doesn't break the other man's gaze. "Royce? Grant is your friend, maybe your closest friend; I know that. And I'm not- I'd never try to-"

"Not like you to misinterpret so badly," Royce says, and some of the tension in the room seems to dissipate. His expression is difficult to read. But it's not anger, and it's not disappointment, and that has to be a good sign. "You, you always understand people. What they're saying and what they're not saying. You always seem to know. Why not now?"

"You're not an easy man to read."

Something rustles on the workbenches. Asher doesn't look; Royce does. Looks away, and loses whatever childish contest of wills they were engaging in.

It's an admission, if Asher is any judge of things, which most of the time he is. Royce concedes...not defeat, because there was never really an argument to begin with. So maybe he concedes that he won't try to start one.

"Please don't drink that," Royce says, and Asher blinks at him for a moment before working out who he's addressing. "I don't know the extent to which your organs have been upgraded, but I'm almost certain that solution would cause a fair amount of corrosion. Not a pleasant way to go. Not at all. And Asher would be heartbroken."

"It's good of you to care," Asher says wryly, and Royce gives him a sudden, brilliant smile.

"We're startlingly dissimilar sometimes, you and I. At cross-purposes. Or...cross-thoughts? Because our purposes, our goals, those are very similar indeed, but somehow... We don't understand each other very well. I think."

It's a valid point. And perceptive, coming from Royce, who as far as Asher can tell has never been too concerned about understanding _people_. That's much more his own area of expertise. One he seems to fail at when it comes to the man in front of him.

With a shrug, Asher reaches for a spare chair and sinks down into it, leaning an elbow on the workbench at his side. Makes his body language casual, non-confrontational. Maybe Royce can't read these things, maybe he can. By now it's almost instinct to change the form and feel of a conversation through stance and facial expression. It's manipulative, Asher knows. Though he prefers the term _resourceful_.

"Is it even possible to completely understand someone?" he asks.

It wasn't a serious question, but Royce inclines his head in thought. "There are...formulae. Processes I can apply to predict- which is to say, it's entirely theoretical, and less than reliable at the best of times. People change. They change and change, it's all they ever seem to do. Too chaotic to pin down. But still, I can try."

"And how would you try to pin _me_ down?" Asher asks, and knows that with his tone, the laughter in his eyes, it comes across as innuendo. He doesn't mind. Doesn't think Royce will either.

Royce smiles again, brief and bright, before his expression grows thoughtful.

"I think _,_ "he says in his distant way, "that if I were to...how to phrase it. Ah. Yes. If I were to, shall we say, attempt to incorporate the very essence of you into shape and colour, into a brief from which to build... If I were to reduce you to a single, simple element. Not that I consider you to be simple, mind you, just that the general populace tends towards the tragically unrefined. The simplistic, which you are not."

Asher hides his amusement behind a sudden pretended preoccupation with a blueprint on the desk at his side. "You're going somewhere with this," he says patiently.

"Thank you, yes I am. Sybil I would summarise as sunlight, or gold perhaps. No, definitely sunlight. And Grant of course is stone; what else could he be? The foundation of our faith, our strength and our direction. If I were to build a Grant-monument, a Sybil-dedication, that's where I'd start. Sunlight and stone. You would be fire," he adds almost carelessly. "I've given it serious thought, and the connection is sound."

"You mean forced. Grant's more fire than I am. Sybil too. I'm just...me. Words and articles, poems. Truth, lies, secrets. Fire is too," he stops for a moment, searching for a more accurate way of vocalising his objection. "Immediate, I guess. I'd like to think I'm a little more subtle than that."

Royce shifts in his chair, makes a curt gesture Asher interprets as irritable. For all his claims at being open to constructive criticism, Royce has never been all that amenable to having his ideas questioned. Too bad. He should know by now to expect nothing less from Asher, at least.

"I didn't accuse you of burning the city down," Royce tells him acidly. "Not that you couldn't. If you wanted. If you chose, I imagine you could wreak a havoc to rival anything even _I_ could manage. The advantage in your case being that after you were done, there'd still be survivors. Always a bonus."

"Did you just make a joke?"

"Has to happen occasionally. Statistically speaking." There is an intensity to Royce's expression that reads as...hunger, Asher thinks. For approval, maybe, for acknowledgement of his attempt at humour. For all that he claims (again and again and again) to find people unnecessarily disruptive, Royce has as much need of them as anyone else. Not all the time; not even most of the time. But when he chooses company over solitude, he hungers to be told that he _fits_.

_Secrets_ , Asher thinks, storing it away to look at later.

"How about we avoid wreaking havoc altogether?" he asks easily. "I can't imagine trying to explain it to Grant. I think I'd probably blame it all on you."

"Such treachery."

"Stop changing the subject. We agree that I'm not interested in burning the city down; I sincerely hope that _never_ becomes an interest of mine, by the way."

"Right. Fire. We were talking about...or rather, I was justifying the connection. Yes." Royce steeples his fingers. Closes his eyes momentarily; his lips move, but Asher knows better than to ask. He settles back in his chair and pretends he can't hear the soft _tap, tap, tap_ of pencils being batted around by restless paws.

"You," Royce says without opening his eyes, "are like the flame that lights other flames, one by one by one. That's what you do, you scorch away lies to find truth. And then you... spread it around, until the city is burning with it. Do you- do you see where I'm going with this? What I'm trying to say."

"I think you've put too much thought into this."

"Probably," Royce agrees. "But you lend yourself to complex interpretation, and I'm always up for a challenge. And anyway, the _more_ I thought about it, the more logical it seemed. What you do, who you are. The name you sign your poems with. I could even form a tenuous link to that creature of yours -which, if you could keep away from my workspace, I would appreciate, some of those blueprints are very valuable indeed. But. Um. Its colouring isn't a coincidence, or you wouldn't have taken such a hands-on approach to personalising it. You chose those eyes, certainly. Chose them to match you. Chose a walking metaphor, an ember with burning eyes. Appropriate name you gave it, by the way, very suitable. But I digress: you are fire. If that's a claim you'd like to rebut, I invite you to do so. By all means."

"Thanks, but I'll let you have this round. Consider me convinced."

"I appreciate that. The highest of praise, coming from you. Why, at this rate I risk becoming conceited."

Asher shrugs. "If you're good at something, what's the harm in being proud of it?"

"Exactly."

The conversation comes to a natural break, and Asher occupies himself with looking around idly. It's not that he doesn't come here often; more than Sybil, and maybe even more than Grant, who prefers to hold official meetings in his office and social encounters at Cloudbank's more exclusive restaurants. Asher isn't fussy. He's been to stranger places, a great deal stranger, and Royce's studio doesn't even make the top ten most memorable. Unless you count Royce himself as being part of the place; given that he practically lives here, it wouldn't be unreasonable to do so.

"You know, there's a growing number of people who think you've skipped town," he says idly. "Just...upped and left Cloudbank completely."

"Not a state of affairs I object to," Royce says. He tugs a sketchbook out from underneath a pile of documents on his desk. Flips it open and conjures a pencil from a pocket in his white coat. "In fact I...think I prefer it to the alternative. Quieter this way. Let Sybil bathe in the limelight. I'm not...I'm ill suited to dealing with the kind of attention she seems to feed off."

"I'm not suggesting you start throwing wild parties in Fairview every other day," Asher says wryly. "But you could stand to get out a little more. I've had enquiries from OVC's Departures section, asking if they should list you when they upload the next set of memorials."

"Really?" Royce doesn't look up from his sketchbook, where his pencil flies across the paper without pause. Asher rolls his eyes.

" _Yes_ , really. They're wondering if you headed out to the Country without anyone realising. And they know _I_ know you, so they come to me about it. Just...visit town every now and then, would you? Go to a show or two, meet a few people."

"They annoy me." Royce glances up at Asher's involuntary laugh, and smiles. "Grant, Sybil, and present company excluded, of course. Which, may I point out, constitutes _people_. You're here, I'm here, in the same room. Talking. Being civil. That's probably- that counts as social interaction, wouldn't you say? The two of us."

"Royce, people think you've _moved on_. The least you could do is let yourself be spotted in public once or twice, so they stop offering me their condolences."

"Thank them, and tell them I went...peacefully. I'd like that, I think. It's good. Suits me just fine."

"Missing the point completely, I see."

"The point is arbitrary. Most things are, you know. I'm doing all of us a favour by staying where I am, with my work, my ideas...it's much better this way."

They fall back on the default semi-comfortable silence that seems a constant part of their conversations. It was strange at first; now it comes hand in hand with his visits to Fairview. He craves it, some days. Tends to bring along some kind of work to justify the time spent away from his desk. Half-finished articles and the like. With anyone else it would be interpreted as antisocial, bordering on offensive- but as ever, Royce is the exception to the rule. And if he minds surrendering his studio to Asher's unpredictable visits, he's never said anything.

They've known each other long enough that it's not intolerable to sit under his flickering scrutiny, watching pencil fly over paper and waiting for it to come to a halt. Either because Royce is finished, or grows bored; one is as likely as the other, and neither takes all that long.

He's worth waiting for. Not many people are.

"Done," Royce says quietly, tucking his pencil back into a pocket. "Not bad, not bad at all. Good of the subject to sit still, for once."

"Which of us is it this time?"

"Your other half," Royce says, offering Asher the sketchbook. "I'd say your _better_ half, but you at least don't try to eat my paints. I appreciate it. Just so you know. Um. So, please don't start doing that."

"Looks like we bored him to sleep," Asher says with a laugh. It's an accurate rendering, as all of Royce's pictures are. True to life, like photographs in graphite. He's learnt not to let his breath catch at the beauty of what he's shown; Royce doesn't understand the reaction. Finds it overdone, fake. As far as Royce is concerned, that kind of awe should be reserved for his masterworks alone. Not for _scribbles_ like this. Still, Asher hands it back reluctantly. "And your paints are safe from me, I promise. My preferences fall more on the flatbread side of things."

"Glad to hear it. Hold still." The pencil makes a reappearance as Royce flips to a fresh page and starts sketching again. Asher raises his eyebrows. Two in one evening is unusual; not unheard of, but highly reflective of Royce's stress levels, in the worst of ways. He _seems_ alright otherwise. But that's Royce all over.

"Hold _still_ ," Royce says again; Asher leans forward and very purposefully kicks his shin.

" _Talk_ to me," he retorts. "Tell me what the problem is. Because there _is_ a problem; I can generally tell these things."

Royce twitches, and for a moment Asher wonders if he's going to kick right back. That would be fair. Completely out of character, but something he could work with.

He doesn't, in the end. Just carries on drawing, savage line after line, the pencil moving jerkily. "Grant didn't send you here," he says. It's a moment before Asher remembers what he's referring to.

"Oh. No, he didn't. Sorry."

"Wish he had," Royce says quietly. "I. Wish. I wish he'd give it back, or send you to give it back; whatever." The pencil stops altogether; he holds Asher's eyes with his own and doesn't look away. "At the very least I wish he'd tell me what he's doing with it because, Asher, I don't...know. I don't know. It's not like I just let go of it completely, I'm not that stupid. I track it. Track the Process, the way it moves, fluctuates, builds and un-builds. And the things I'm seeing- I'm finding strange things. I don't think I can explain it, not in layman's terms, not unless you want a crash course in some fairly advanced trigonometry. Just...trust me. It's strange."

"I trust you," Asher tells him, and means it.

"If you know anything. Anything at all, if he's...dropped hints or let anything slip- I hope, that is, I would very much appreciate it if you told me. I hope it's not too forward of me to ask. Hard to know where I stand with you, sometimes."

"Ask away. Knowing things is what I do, for the most part." Asher's smile feels bleak; he wonders if it fools anyone at all. "But not in this case."

"Does that...bother you?"

"I guess. I mean, yes it does, though it shouldn't." Asher runs a hand through his hair, and regrets it. He doesn't get like this. He doesn't make himself so easy to read, not for anyone but Grant. And yet, here they are. And he can't seem to stop talking. "Feels like I'm letting him down; like it means I'm not as loyal as I should be."

"It _means_ you're still sane." Royce's tone is sharper than he's ever heard it. "And I'm still sane. We're both of us, we're- wondering. Not at ease with the mystery, with being kept in the dark."

"I believe in Grant," Asher says flatly. "And so do you. If our goals are the same, what does it matter? When he's ready, when he's worked out how he wants to use this new advantage...then we'll know. And Cloudbank will be better off for what we do with it."

Royce shakes his head, turning back to the sketch. "I've caused offense, I see. Not my intention. I...apologise."

"No harm done, I shouldn't have snapped. You're well within your rights to ask questions." He's aware that this is _his_ job, that he should be the one unearthing the information Royce is requesting. But at the same time, he's also the last person who should be doing so; if Grant doesn't have _his_ faith, his unquestioning faith, then what does he have?

"So how do I look?" he asks after a full minute of silence, of a prickling in the air that he can't place and wants gone. Royce isn't drawing anyway; seems set on staring down at his picture with dissatisfaction. "That bad, huh?"

"I never get you quite right. Never, ever. It's...well, it's a little discouraging, I'll admit, but I will persevere."

"Looks fine to me." More than fine, as usual. It's eerie, in a way; not unlike rounding a corner and running into a mirror unexpectedly. His own reflection where it shouldn't be. He looks worried today; there's a sharpness to his eyes that other pictures have lacked. _Is it that obvious?_ Asher thinks. _Or, he's just more perceptive than I give him credit for. It's possible._

"I'm building quite a collection of these," Royce says when Asher returns the sketchbook. "Almost enough to start a gallery. I hadn't realised I was making a habit of it but, um, they are starting to pile up. Pictures of that nuisance you carry with you everywhere, doing all kinds of inconvenient things-"

Asher has to laugh at that. "Pictures of Grant being _serious_ , pictures of Sybil shining brighter than stars."

"Yes." Royce scowls down at the sketch in his lap before laying it aside. "Those too. But, not just. I mean, they're present of course, and not in the single digits either, but they're not the majority. That dubious honour goes to you."

"Because I'm the only one patient enough to sit still? Sounds about right." He nudges Royce's shin with his boot again, just for the sake of it. Just to underline his forgiveness, to emphasise that their previous... disagreement is forgotten. Water under the bridge.

_We could all use a few more bridges around here_ , Asher finds himself thinking. _A bridge to our goals, a shortcut to a better future for Cloudbank. A bridge to Fairview would be a nice idea too; it gets a little old, sailing here every time. 'Windswept' is not a good look on me_. _Not like it is on you._

He and Royce could use a little less distance between them too. A little less of the ever-pervasive tension he's getting tired of pretending doesn't exist. Asher shares a wavelength with Sybil; a soul with Grant. He has indelible ties to the other two, and somehow still struggles to feel like he knows the third.

Grant maintains that this isn't something anyone can change. He stands by Royce's distance being as much a part of him as his genius.

Even Grant can't be right all the time.

"You have that look," Royce says. He leans forward in his seat, clasps his hands in front of him and tilts his head. "On your face. I've found it generally means trouble, inconvenience, awkward social situations, things of that ilk. Not that I- I do appreciate your company, of course. Um. Your cat too, he's always welcome here. But let's skip to the part where I refuse whatever invitation you're about to extend, and we just...put it behind us."

"You have no idea what I'm going to ask," Asher says placidly. He maintains a friendly smile as Royce shrugs and stands abruptly. Shoves his chair aside, turning to his workbench to frown down at some incomprehensible document or other.

"It'll be a party. Or a, uh, a soiree. A dinner, a reception, a society ball. Maybe an orgy."

"I've never invited you to an orgy."

"Probably just a matter of time."

"Well, since you mention it..."

It has to be worth a try. _Royce_ is certainly worth the effort, and if nothing comes of it but the immediate, visceral rush... Well, no harm done. Asher's wanted to try this for a very long time. Try this distant man with his piercing eyes and anti-charisma.

Grant tells him he is a person with a cat's curiosity; Asher is fond of that particular comparison. And Royce is a better target for curiosity than anyone else he can think of.

He makes his decision, and acts on it.

"Royce, I have a request. And a strange one, at that; it's possible I'm completely wrong and you'll turn me down. If that's the case, I won't take offense. But," Asher says, standing slowly, "I'm not usually mistaken about this kind of thing." He steps in closer, verges on crowding Royce up against his workspace. Toes the line, doesn't cross it. Delicacy is something he's very good at. "Just tell me if I am, alright? Otherwise... let's just say I'm open to feedback."

He gets closer than he'd expected. Close enough to notice (not for the first time, but it's always hard to tell, given how Royce tends to avoid looking at people for too long) the vivid green of Royce's eyes. _That colour's wasted on you_ , he thinks ruefully. _You never let anyone see it_.

He expects to be stopped, and he is, but it's not unfriendly. A hand on his chest (he can barely feel the press of Royce's fingers through his shirt, and for a dizzying moment he thinks of the way those long fingers handle pencils, paintbrushes, tools; always, always with the same careful grip. Royce treats his equipment like it's made of glass and it scares him to touch it. He touches Asher the same way).

When Royce speaks, he's hesitant. A rare thing. "Is Grant...okay with this? I mean, I'm assuming you have some kind of arrangement, maybe based around the fact that- but that's none of my business. What I want to know is, um. Are you-"

"It's fine," Asher tells him, and doesn't hide the pleasure he feels at being asked. It's good. A wonderful thing to see the loyalty Grant inspires in people. "That's between him and me, and it's fine. Actually, he...insisted on it. Didn't want me feeling trapped, or getting bored, or something similarly ludicrous."

"An eye on every possibility; sounds like Grant." Royce's smile is fond. "Sounds just like him, like something he'd say. And he'd mean it too, if I know him at all. I hope so. I really, really hope so."

"Do you?"

"Um, yes. Because if _I_ don't and _you_ don't, and we're both mistaken, then. Well. I daresay things might get a little awkward between us all. But I...have a feeling they won't. The chances of you and I being wrong about the same thing, why, they're extremely low. Speaking mathematically, of course."

Asher takes this as permission to start toying with the knot of Royce's tie. Works it loose slowly, stomping down on impatience and a sudden need for several layers of clothing to just not be there anymore. He tends to get like this. Gets impatient when what he wants is so close he can practically taste it. "Of course," he says, laying the tie gently aside. "And on a less mathematical note, would I be correct in assuming we're on the same page here? You're alright with this."

"Mhm. Yes, oh yes; I'm very much okay with whatever it is you have in mind. Would have thought it was obvious. I certainly noticed _your_ interest a while back. You, the way you watch me. Forty percent respect, twenty percent curiosity, ten percent concern with regards to my mental state, and. Thirty percent base human desire. Not subtle at all, Asher."

He eyes the buttons on Royce's waistcoat, before resigning himself to leaving them as they are. Far too much effort this time around. If all goes well, the next will be a different matter.

"And what about you, hm?" he asks, as if the argument actually matters anymore. "That stare of yours unnerves people like nothing else, but you only inflict it on them until they bore you. Then it's like they stop existing. Only, it hasn't really worked that way for us, has it? I used to think you were always _angry_ at me. In all honestly I believed it for an embarrassingly long time, until I realised you just...like looking at me. Not subtle at all, _Royce_."

He likes having a majority of the other man's attention on him. Not all, of course; there's the usual dreamy cast to his expression that says a part of him is elsewhere inside his head.

_Thirty percent incomprehensible math,_ Asher thinks. _And seventy percent...me. Okay. I can work with that._

"Checkmate?" Royce asks. "Or, maybe not. Maybe not a complete loss, at that. More of a draw. Should I ask for a truce?"

"I had something else in mind."

The difference in their heights is an inconvenience at worst, and one Asher's accustomed to working around anyway. _Sybil_ stands taller than he does; he's never let something like height get in his way. Asher tilts his head up. And whatever Royce may claim about his supposed inability to read social cues, he's also quick enough to spot an open invitation when it presents itself. He ducks his head; they meet halfway. Simple.

Strange at first, though. It always is with a new partner, and Asher's had a few in his time. He adapts; Royce is as human as anyone else, and his needs are written in the curve of his lips, the brush of his tongue. He wants, like Asher wants. He follows the kiss with an eagerness that is nothing like as detached as he might want it to appear.

"Not bad," Asher says in the first break in contact, when they separate to breathe and eye each other with wary hunger. _Is this still okay_ and _are you still here with me_ and _yes, yes, don't you stop now, don't you stop._

"Condescending, Asher," Royce tells him, slightly breathless "You're better than that."

"If you say so."

It's in his nature, his coding, to collect information; to discover and record and memorise. Find things out and hold them close, and so.

He slides a hand into Royce's hair, lets it curl between his fingers; tugs gently, and again when he feels Royce's soft _oh_ against his neck. It does something to him, that sound. He's not normally a rough lover, not without fair provocation, but the urge hits him hard from absolutely nowhere. The need to pull Royce's hair until he bends, arches back and shows his throat. The need to bite at his collarbones, kiss him to bruising.

Asher makes himself let go of Royce's hair, nudge his collar aside and mouth gently at his neck. There's a pulse pounding under his lips. Under his tongue, his teeth. Royce tenses at the last and Asher glances up into dazed eyes.

"Would it upset you if I left a mark or two?"

"An odd request to make at this stage of things, I-" Royce's breath hitches. "Which is to say...illogical. Given the circumstances. We mark what's ours, what we claim for ourselves, and I, _you_ do not claim me. Even if I was amenable to the idea, it's. Out of the question. You can't."

"No. But that's half the fun, wouldn't you say? Pretend for me."

"You strange man," Royce says with something approaching fondness. "Remarkable, unique- quite extraordinary, in your own way."

"And _you_ are never anything less than yourself. Even now. You just can't shut up, can you?"

"You're nowhere near persuasive enough for _that_ , Asher."

Asher grins. Vain as he is (and he admits it; Sybil says, and he agrees, that there's no point whatsoever to false modesty), he _knows_ he's good. Could be better, certainly, if he felt that way inclined. He does, he decides. He very much does. "Hey, Royce," he says and, when he's sure he has the other man's full attention, " _hold still_." And sinks to his knees in one smooth movement.

"You're actually going to-" he hears Royce say, and takes a certain amount of pleasure in the way the other man's voice breaks off. The silence doesn't last, but it changes things. There is a breathy note creeping into Royce's tone; he pauses too often to sound natural. Or what passes for it where he's concerned.

"Not...what I expected. I'll admit," Royce says, and Asher gives a curious _hmm?_ in lieu of actual answer. Occupies himself instead with undoing the zip of Royce's fly with his teeth (a party trick he gets ridiculous satisfaction out of pulling, and almost as much out of knowing how good he looks while doing it). "Not that I- that I've put inordinate amounts of thought into a...scenario like this. That would be strange. But if I had, if I'd pictured how things might turn out, well. This is different. Good, though. Please don't mistake that for criticism, because it's very much the opposite. Not, uh, critique. At all."

"That's sweet. And I'm only just getting started with you."

He nuzzles at the black cotton of Royce's underwear, open-mouthed, mindful of teeth. Breathes on him through the fabric and feels him shiver in response.

"That's, um, nice. What you're doing. I'm...very definitely okay with that, I-" and his breath catches as Asher licks him through his underwear. " _Oh_."

"You're easily pleased; I like that," Asher says, hooking his fingers under the waistband and tugging it halfway down Royce's hips. "Makes things a lot more fun for me."

Royce laughs raggedly right up until Asher's mouth closes over him. Then he makes a low sound like nothing Asher's ever heard from him. Does it again as Asher takes him in deep (and a gag reflex is optional these days anyway, but he's always found having one keeps things fun. Keeps him focused, interested. Makes this feel like a skill he's worked to acquire. There's pleasure to be had in knowing he's good at something, and Asher is well aware that this is an activity he's _exceptional_ at).

_This working for you, Royce?_ Asher thinks. _It's working for me_. He's hard himself now, shifting his hips against the too-tight fabric of his trousers and wishing for something more in the way of friction.

"That's- that's good, really...I guess _good_ doesn't really cover it, not even close. At all. It's, _oh_ , you're...frighteningly skilled at this. Apparently. Wouldn't have guessed, not at all; you don't seem the type-" Royce's knuckles are white where he grips the edge of his desk. "And, um, maybe not the best time to ask, but if you'd rather I didn't touch you, or-"

"It's fine," Asher pulls back long enough to say. He grins up at Royce and hopes his pupils look half as blown as they _feel_. Wipes his mouth casually with the back of his hand, doesn't break eye contact. "Touch me, pull my hair. Do it. I want you to."

"That makes two of us. How...convenient." Royce eases a hand into Asher's hair, his usual careful self. Too careful. Too _controlled_.

Asher grips him tight by the hips (he's too thin, he's always too thin, and who knows how often he just...forgets to eat. Sidetracked by numbers and code and processes, by the mysteries of their existence. There are times when Asher wonders how it is that this man even _exists_ , and it makes his current position a wholly different experience, charged in ways he doesn't know what to do about) and licks down the length of him. Swallows past reflex until his nose brushes the red silk of that odd sash Royce wears in concession to their self-proclaimed uniform.

"Oh," Royce breathes, and Asher imagines that his eyes must be closed, that he must be biting his lip. He's far from gentle now, his fingers tight in Asher's hair; pressing against the back of his scalp. Asher can feel them shake minutely. Feels them twitch as he ups his pace a little. It sends an unexpected rush through his body, red-white hot lust he bucks his hips into. He moans around Royce's cock and hears Royce whisper, "Oh _, fuck, Asher_ " in response.

It's like a shock of electricity to his insides. Asher fumbles his own trousers open one-handed, digging the nails of his other hand into Royce's hip.

It's never a good idea to time these things, but he's done in maybe thirty seconds, by generous estimate. Thrown helplessly off the edge by the rough friction of his own hand; the soft groan that is the only warning he needs to know that Royce is as far gone as he is. Asher swallows deep and tries not to feel too smug. He wonders what it would take to shatter Royce's composure completely. He'd very much like to know.

There's the usual silence afterwards, the usual stunned-exhilarated bliss that marks all his favourite encounters. Makes them memorable. Asher leans his forehead briefly on Royce's thigh and breathes slowly. Royce's hands are still in his hair, gently tidying it strand by strand. Keeping contact to a minimum; he'd rather not be touched just now, that much is clear. But he has enough odd fondness for Asher to refrain from shoving him away.

Asher's never been the cuddly sort. He sits back on his haunches and makes cleanup a brisk, practiced business. He's fucked in worse places, with less considerate people; Royce offers a hand to help him up, and Asher accepts both the gesture and the sentiment behind it.

"Thanks," he says; Royce raises his eyebrows.

"I feel like I should be the one saying that. Thanking you, I mean. Slightly unexpected, but...good. Just unexpectedly so."

"You realise you're repeating yourself."

"Yes, well," Royce says, "I'm finding it...a little difficult to focus right now. And, um. Whose fault is that, exactly?"

"You're welcome," Asher tells him, sincerely. "You want a repeat performance any time, let me know."

"I'll...think about it."

"Likewise."

He backs off. Nothing to be gained here from pushing at the boundaries of anyone's comfort zone, not if he wants to be welcomed back into Royce's space any time soon. They have time. Unless he's much mistaken, they have inclination. The rest will sort itself out. He turns away and pretends to fuss over resettling his scarf around his neck, arranging the ends just so. As if it matters. The winds on the way home from Fairview will ruin it all anyway. What he wouldn't do for a bridge-

"Asher," Royce says; there's something new in his tone, the forceful note that makes an appearance when he wants to be listened to and doesn't plan on repeating himself. Asher looks up to find his eyes a little wider than usual. "Tell me. Because, you understand, this isn't something I do. Not at all a situation I'm familiar with, circumstances I recognise. Can't work without data, so. Tell me. How will things change from now on? Between us."

"They don't," Asher tells him.

"Really. Pardon me for saying so but, uh, I find that...hard to believe."

"I'm serious. This isn't _change_ , not really. We go on with our lives and our work, and if you decide you don't want it to happen again then don't say anything. I won't mention it again."

He's almost breathless again by the last sentence; breathless with conviction and the need to convince. _This_ cuts too close to a subject they shouldn't be discussing without the rest of their little...faction. He should have seen it coming. He didn't. And now he thinks about it, he's not certain he actually believes his own arguments. "I mean it," he says, and tries to. "If you don't want this, we put it behind us."

"And if I do?" Impossible to know what Royce is thinking.

Asher shrugs, as close to carelessly as he manage in the circumstances. "Then you're still you, and I am still myself, and we continue this strange relationship we have where we fail to understand each other more often than not and yet somehow still manage to get along. _You_ still hide out as far from civilisation as you can get, I still make the considerable effort of commuting across town to distract you. The only difference is that I get to be a little more...creative in my distractions."

"Creative." Royce draws the word out thoughtfully. "One way of putting it, I suppose. One way. There are others of course, but if your preferences lean more towards discretion then...we can call it that. If you want. I don't mind, either way."

"Concise as usual, Royce, thank you.

"You're welcome. Any time. Happy to help, in any way I...oh. You were being sarcastic."

"Well spotted." He says it lightly, makes it clear he doesn't mean to cause offense. Royce is prickly sometimes. Though...maybe not just now, not towards Asher. He'll still be feeling some of the after effects. Might even be somewhat pleasant company for a few hours. It's worth a try.

There's a special kind of quiet to Fairview that he hasn't found anywhere else in Cloudbank. A special sort of emptiness that would be unnerving if he was alone, but he isn't.

Asher clears his throat. "I have...a few things I need to get done for tomorrow. If you want me gone from here, I'll understand completely, but if not-"

"Stay," Royce says. He seems surprised at the speed of his own answer, but not enough to retract it. "That is, I'm okay with you staying here. You're quiet. Not at all obtrusive. Though I ramble sometimes, sometimes at great length, and I may not notice I'm doing it, but you're welcome to tell me if I get annoying. I'll... stop. Keep it down."

"Don't. I like your voice."

"That's new. A first, I think. Can't say I've heard it before."

He sounds a little baffled; ill-equipped to deal with a compliment that doesn't relate to his work. It's always been the case. Asher makes a mental note to throw a few more pleasant observations his way. _Your eyes are nice,_ and _I've always had a weakness for tall men_. He imagines the results will be entertaining, if not exactly productive.

Still, there is a line between entertainment and cruelty; Asher lets Royce flounder for a few more seconds and then switches to safer ground. "So what are you working on?"

Royce gives him an odd look. "You're only just asking now?"

"Strange concept, but the only person whose world revolves around your work is you, Royce. I have other things to do." He moderates his tone when it comes too close to cutting. He shouldn't have to. He has more control than this normally. Trust Royce to bring out the less predictable parts of his personality. "Show me anyway?"

The air above Royce's workspace shimmers, morphs into a terminal screen. Red-gold border, OVC icon centre top. Some kind of list, from the looks of it. Asher moves in closer to read it, nudging Royce out of the way with his shoulder. He wouldn't have dared do it before. Now he finds himself wondering if he'd get away with resting a hand on Royce's back.

Maybe another time.

_...with regards to your previous message which, despite the amount of time that has elapsed since you sent it, I did not actually forget about:_

_\+ preston moyle and farrah yon-dale, agreed._

_+olmarq is a different matter and quite frankly i don't see what we could possibly gain from integrating him in with the rest. volatile, aggressive, unpredictable, not a good idea grant, not at all. are you feeling like yourself? far be it from me to imply that you might be going a bit senile, so i'll settle for registering my objections in writing and we can all move on from this without wasting any further time._

"You can't send that to him," Asher says. "' _Going senile_ '? He gives you some leeway, but you're pushing it."

"But you agree, don't you? It's a bad idea. Very bad idea, introducing an element like Olmarq into such a fragile equation."

"Because you've been so very scientific about choosing all the rest," Asher says dryly. "And you certainly didn't suggest Wave Tennegan as a candidate just because he once said he personally didn't connect with your style of design. You'd never be that petty."

"A personal comment he broadcast to half of Cloudbank," Royce begins, and Asher stops paying attention to the specifics. He runs his eyes down Royce's list of suggestions. Nods to himself when he recognises names (most of them. He gets around; not quite as much as Sybil, but he still has his fair share of contacts). Looks like Royce is pushing for figures in the scientific community this time. All well and good, in their own ways, but the whole _point_ of integration is attaining a balanced viewpoint. Skew it towards the hard sciences, towards numbers and equations and obscure theories, and they'll lose the _people_ connection.

Still, he hesitates. Longer than he should, and he's grateful Grant isn't around to see it. They need this. Cloudbank needs this. Sacrifices have to be made.

It's a shame he can't seem to cut away the treacherous part of himself that feels guilt over their actions. That keeps him quiet during meetings, makes him bite his tongue and refrain from putting forward any names of his own. Grant hasn't said anything yet, but someone will soon enough. A lack of contribution implies a lack of loyalty. And he is loyal. He believes in this.

"Bailey Gilande," he says abruptly. Royce breaks off in the middle of his monologue.

"Is that a suggestion?"

"Yes," Asher says. His voice may shake minutely, but it's unlikely Royce will notice. "From the archives. Intelligent, balanced, fair. I can attest to that, we see each other all the time when I stop by for research. Almost every day." He swallows, but the words are out and Royce is already adding the name to his list without protest.

It feels a little like a turning point.

"What happens now?" he asks. "Who will...who's responsible for integrating the necessary data?" It's humiliating to admit that he doesn't know for certain. He's avoided knowing, and told himself it didn't matter. Not part of his job. He needs to stop being so hesitant.

"Grant," Royce tells him, and has the decency not to voice the _obviously_ that sits so plainly in his expression. "You didn't know?"

"I thought it might be- well, _you_."

"Did you? Understandable, I guess. Completely understandable, and you're right- it could have been. Could be. Depending. But Grant, you see, he won't allow that. It has to be him. That's his job, or what he thinks is his job; maybe he says _job_ but means _responsibility_ , if you take my meaning."

_He would_ , Asher thinks. _Of course he would; how could it possibly be anyone else?_ "I understand," he says quietly. "Admin's role; take the people's commands and execute them. Of course he'd feel he has to be our executioner."

"I don't like that word much," Royce says. "Too...loaded. You ascribe to it a meaning that doesn't really apply here. This is unique, this undertaking. Normal rules don't fit the way they should. Grant would explain it better than me, uh, so you should probably be asking him. Instead."

He could ask. As a show of faith, a display of his commitment to their beliefs, he could ask.

He's not sure he wants to live with the answers.

"I never know who it'll be next," Royce muses. Asher shoots him a questioning look. "Sybil does, I think; she knows where people are, where they'll be at certain times of the day. She knows who he chooses off the list, long before I do. I just...wait. Run the numbers, run my experiments. The Process is changing, did I tell you that? I did, didn't I. Interesting times. Very interesting. But I, uh, still wish I knew his plans ahead of time. Just...a little warning would be nice. Before he vanishes with the Transistor for days, as he's done once again. Is that unreasonable?"

"I don't know."

"Well," Royce says. His lips twitch. "Would you look at that. Common ground. We're practically on the same wavelength, how unusual."

"I'll mark it in my calendar. Maybe Sybil will throw us an anniversary party." A poor attempt at humour; they smile at each other anyway, and it's not quite as painful as it might have been. Royce shuts down the OVC screen with the press of a button.

"We're done with that line of conversation for today, I think," he says. "Done and dusted, is probably the phrase. Maybe not. Not that it matters much, if you still grasp my meaning, which I'm sure you do. You're more than bright enough for that. And I'm keeping you from your work, which is unforgivable. Keeping myself from my own work too, though that's less surprising. Always been easily sidetracked, you see. Easily distracted. You're partly to blame here, you know; extremely distracting, just by being...you."

"Remind me to teach you how to form a proper compliment sometime," Asher says. He forces his gaze away from the empty space where the OVC screen no longer displays its list of potential...targets. Candidates. For the betterment of Cloudbank. "One that doesn't manage to be simultaneously confusing and mildly insulting. I do have a few standards."

His own OVC tablet blinks to life at a touch, his work laid out where he saved it. A review of the new tea shop in Goldwalk (excellent decor, lacklustre beverages, and if it lasts a month he'll be very surprised); interviews with the organisers of the 66th Annual Fashion Week; a full page spread on preparations for this year's Star Festival. One of the many advantages to working for OVC: he never runs short of work to drown himself in, when he needs that particular brand of numbness.

At some point he becomes aware of Royce picking the sketchbook back up, and the subsequent rasp of pencil on paper. _Again_ , he thinks. _You strange, impossible man; does it help at all?_

He came here for the company. The quiet, the absence of judgement, absence of gossip and conjecture and _you're not looking too happy recently, is something wrong?_ They do this well, if not much else. They manage a balance shaped in lingering silences and respectful incomprehension. There is no need to pretend they understand each other, though Asher at least tries. Maybe Royce does too. Maybe they're both missing the point.

Nothing is ever simple these days. Shades of grey instead of black and white; layers of truth in place of basic right and wrong. And that's a good thing. Real life shouldn't be broken down into something as easy as a poll result. Complexity means comprehension, and that's all he's ever wanted from his work. To give people understanding.

Still, he wishes just this once that things could be simple.

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for a prompt on the (currently very quiet) [Supergiant kink meme](http://superkink.dreamwidth.org/464.html?view=11216&posted=1). Come liven it up with weird and wonderful requests, I'm begging you!  
>  **Edit:** Robotnoire over on tumblr did some [seriously beautiful art](http://robotnoire.tumblr.com/post/109818387421/inspired-by-this-great-fanfic-by-this-amazing) that everyone should go look at, because _wow_. Thank you so much!


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